


Scruff

by Patronoftheravens



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Fluff I guess, M/M, Shaving, There's a lot of swearing, This is DUMB, and headcanon, no one asked for this pairing but here it is anyway, tardif is an ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 10:17:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16061048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patronoftheravens/pseuds/Patronoftheravens
Summary: Listen okay, I didn't want to work on something big that will come later for these two but I'm a sucker for tropey shaving shit so it's good okay. You should read it. There's no plot. This summary is pointless. Literally everything you need to know about this work is in the tags. They're right up there. If you missed them, read them. That's this fic. It's good though. If you like pointless things without fluff and a lot of banter. That's what I like. So, I personally recommend this fic. ~<3





	Scruff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wraithlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wraithlight/gifts).



> No one asked for this ship but here it is. If you like it, let me know. Seriously, please. I have like, one other person I know ships this and he's a bad influence. So, if you like it, leave a kudos, or a comment. A kudos lets me know you definitely read this work and kind of maybe appreciated it. A comment lets me know that you love me. Or maybe you don't. That's fine if you don't I struggle with commitment. That's why I have 150 WIPs. But seriously, please let me know if you liked it. If you don't like it. Well, uh, don't be a dick! Please don't. I had to look up what Victorian shaving cream was and also when menthol was synthesized. ~<3

No one comes out of a dungeon unscathed. Sometimes, no one comes out period. Tardif is usually decent at keeping his wounds to a minimum but the damned hellholes always have it coming for someone. He can’t evade his ruin forever, not in this cursed place. 

It made an attempt on him when he last went into the Cove. It broke his left humerus and impaled his right shoulder. The monstrosities in those subterranean caverns are brutal and ruthless. The wound in his shoulder, a result of one of their spears and the fracture from taking a bludgeoning hit in order to protect the new recruit, an arbalist. She fell further in the dungeon. 

The party had been gone for a solid week. The expeditions are getting longer, harder, and less are coming back. The usual four went out last week, and three returned. Tardif was by far the worst of them. The other two are resting, waiting for the next time they’ll be sent out. 

Tardif sits by the fireplace in the bunkhouse in one of the creaky high backed chairs that lie about, dozing off. He can’t move his arms much. His right moves enough to eat even if it pains him but his left is better off staying in the sling for the time. The door opens behind him and he’s all too familiar with the soft tread of a certain Highwayman’s boots.

“Evenin’ Dismas…” he sighs.

“Evenin’. You didn’t tell me you got out early.”

“Didn’ ‘get out’. Opened th’ window ‘n broke out.”

Dismas pauses for a moment, blinks, “You...broke out? With two useless arms?”  
“On the first floor. Didn’ need ta climb.”

Dismas shakes his head, tsks just for a moment, “Reckless.”

“Feck off. Hate bein’ ‘n there. Get...antsy.”

“Can’t do much with your injuries.”

“Got two good legs.”

“Can’t swing an axe.”

“Can if I try.”

Dismas holds his hands up in surrender, “alright, alright, understood,” he pulls a chair up and sits at the edge, elbows on his knees, “you holdin’ up alright?”

“Hurts but I’ll make it.”

“Not what I meant.”

“I’m fine.”

“Tardif-”

“Said ‘m fine, yeah? Feck off.”

“Look at me Tardif.”

There’s four seconds of silence after the command. Four seconds that Dismas’ heart stops. Four seconds where he thinks he’s broken Tardif’s trust. Then, begrudgingly, Tardif raises his head and stares into Dismas’ eyes with a cold eye and a broken eye. Dismas can’t tell which is which. He opens his mouth to remark then shuts it when he notices something else. Along Tardif’s jaw is unkempt dark stubble. A week in a dungeon will grow a beard on some men but it appears that luxurious sagacious whiskers aren’t in Tardif’s future. He suppresses a snicker then grips the bounty hunter’s jaw.

“What is this? Can’t grow a decent beard?”

“Drop it,” he swats at the hand on his face, “couldn’ shave ‘n there. Can’t shave now ‘cause my fuckin’ arms ‘r shot.”

Dismas speaks through snickers, “want me to?”

“Shave me? Like ‘d trust ya with a blade ta my throat.”

“Come now. Trust me enough to bed me but won’t let me help you?”

Tardif grumbles, narrows his eyes, “Don’ trust most’ anyone at th’ moment.”

“That’s a fair point given your condition,” he gestures to Tardif’s bandaged arms, “but would I have some reason to slit your throat?”

“Hmp. S’pose not. S’pose ‘fya were gonna cut my throat it’d be cut already.”

“That’s the ticket. Though, tryin’ to slit your throat wouldn’t be top on my to-do list. Only thing it’d earn me is an axe in the skull.”

“Damn straight.”

“Let me help you, Tardif. Probably’ll be a cleaner shave than you’re used to.”

“Don’t upsell yourself ta me. I ain’t buyin’ it.” 

“You’re stuck with me yet, Tardif. Stay there a moment. I’ll fetch water and whatnot. Don’t want you strainin’ yourself.”

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere fast.”

“Got two good legs don’t you?”

“Sod off ya prick.”

“Be back in two shakes.”

True to his word, Dismas barely takes five minutes to get what he needs. He sets down a small vase full of water, the swan neck apparently snapped off at some point. Tardif eyes it suspiciously as Dismas lays the other implements out.

“What  _ is  _ that?”

“Oh, the vase? I haven’t the foggiest. That Jester pulled it out of the Ruins one time and I caught Reynauld using it as a vessel to wash his own razor in. So I nicked it from him. Don’t think he’s noticed though.”

“S’pose that’s fair.”

“You want to take your shirt off? Don’t have a proper cloth but, can make do.”

“Gonna need help with that. Right arm moves but it don’ exactly wanna.”

Dismas smiles to himself a moment before starting to undo the buttons on Tardif’s shirt, “This is rather nice. Yours?”

He rolls his right shoulder a little to get the half unbuttoned shirt off of it, “Yeah. It’s just cotton really. Nothin’ special.”

“You take care of it well.”

“Dunno how,” Dismas guides the other sleeve of his shirt off his left shoulder and lets the open shirt fall to the floor. Tardif’s eyes follow it, morose, “Just a shirt.”

Dismas shrugs, “Feels soft. Small comforts I suppose.”

“Hmp. S’pose,” he murmurs, eyes closed. Somewhere, he’s aware of Dismas wetting his face with his bare hands, “No gloves for me?” 

“Not a good idea to get leather wet. ‘Sides I’ve got soft hands don’t I?” and he cups Tardif’s face in his hands.

“Yeah. Softer ‘n mine,” then a pause as a familiar lather smears across his face, “Ya didn’ hafta waste your shave soap on my peach fuzz.”

“It’s a little more than peach fuzz right now Tardif.”

“More like vagrant’s scruff.”

“Come now. I’m sure it’d grow proper if you let it.”

Tardif huffs a laugh through his nose, “‘f only. It don’ grow proper. Li’l like how my last two fingers don’ straighten out proper. Time won’ fix it so I just deal.”

“Your hair the same way?” A soft pitter patter of water dripping onto the floor as Dismas washes his hands of the foam.

“Nah, grows slow ‘n curls.”

“ _ You  _ have curly hair?”

“Yeah. ‘s why I don’ let it grow.”

“You’d look cute with it.”

“Another reason to cut it short.”

“Hmp. Fine. Be stubborn.”

“As a mule sweetheart,” he falls silent as Dismas puts the blade of a straight razor to the skin of his cheek, slides downwards. He sits quietly for Dismas, letting him manipulate his head without any fuss. He finds himself smiling and relaxing just a little at Dismas’ gentle ministrations. True to his word, the blade never so much as kisses his skin. Dismas wipes the remainder of the shave soap off with a threadbare towel before applying aftershave with soft hands.

Tardif cracks an eye open, “Y’av got fuckin’...minty ass aftershave…”

“Yeah ‘s got menthol in it.”

“Fuckin’...tingles.”

Dismas snickers, gently tugs Tardif’s chin towards him to place a kiss just to the bow of his upper lip, “didn’t know you could sit so still.”

“Y’ain’t gonna fuckin’ be a jitterbug when y’av got a fuckin’ blade ta your throat ya prick.”

Dismas snickers a little and slides his hands to better cup Tardif’s face, “Know ‘m a prick, but, can I at least have a kiss for a job well done?”

Tardif huffs, draws his lips into a distasteful line before closing his eyes and smiling ever so slightly, “fine,” he closes the gap between them and kisses Dismas slowly, sweetly for Tardif. There’s no tongue, no heat, just tenderness. Dismas almost says something. Almost, but he keeps his mouth shut. 


End file.
